Dispatches from the Deep
by Tamerlane09
Summary: In order to save himself from bankruptcy, Nathaniel Howe sells his estate to finance an expedition into the Deep Roads.  Joining this endeavour are a Tevinter runaway slave, a Coterie thug, a Fereldan apostate and a former Grey Warden.  Minor AU/OC.
1. In Medias Res

Fenris saw a light up ahead.

With the last of his strength, he launched himself at the rock wall. His hands tore at the stone, grappling onto holds when there were ones and scratching into rock when there weren't. His head craned upwards, trying to judge the distance between himself and his escape.

_Fifteen feet._

Dislodged pebbles gathered under his fingernails. Stone tore at his body, leaving gashes and scratches that dribbled blood onto the rock. The higher he climbed, the fewer footholds he found. He smashed his hands into the rock, scaling up the near-vertical crag.

_Eleven feet. Faster._

His gauntlets splintered from the exertion. Shards of metal embedded themselves in his hands and wrists. Blood leaked into the crevices, making it harder to maintain a grip. All the while, Fenris urged himself on, scrabbling up the rock-face even as his body screamed with the effort.

_Seven feet. Oh Maker, seven feet._

There were hisses below him; inhuman gurgles and shouts. Fenris knew that the darkspawn were right behind him, but he did not look back. There was no time. With extra urgency, he clawed his way up towards the light.

_Five feet. Only five feet to go._

All was agony, now. His hands were bruised and bleeding; his broken fingernails pushed into his flesh every time he found another handhold. His arms quivered in exhaustion. His legs dragged up the rock, threatening to give way at any moment. Tears of pain trickled down his dirt-stained cheeks, ignored. Even as his body tortured him, fear drove him on; he could hear the darkspawn, scrabbling up the wall behind him.

_Two feet._

He wasn't going to make it. His hands were numb and exhausted; his legs were becoming unresponsive. It was too far. He would never reach it in time. He would slip and fall to the bottom. The darkspawn would butcher him. As he lay paralysed on the floor, they would hack at him with their swords. Or drag him away to be devoured. Or worse yet, vomit their infected blood into his mouth.

He continued climbing.

_One foot._

He would make it. He was almost there. Just a few more seconds and he would be free. He would cast himself out of this subterranean hell. He would let the sweet air fill his shattered lungs. He would bathe his bloodstained face in the clean river, taste cold water on his chapped lips. The deep – and all its associated evils – would be gone forever.

His hand reached out, grabbing the final rock that would allow him to pull himself out of the cave.

_Almost there. It was so close. So close-_

The rock slipped from his grasp.


	2. Homecoming

_My dearest sister,_

_Received your letter on the fifth of the seventh. By the time this reaches you, I will already be in Kirkwall. While I appreciate your concern, I must inform you that your continuous efforts to change my mind are futile. Despite your protestations, I have thought long and carefully about my actions. The expedition, for all its dangers, is the last chance that we have._

_I have hidden this from you for some time, dearest Delilah, but we are ruined. Amaranthine has yet to recover from the darkspawn siege. In the meanwhile, we have lost our trade to Kirkwall. Gwaren has displaced us as the principal fishery in Ferelden. Without the benefits of commerce, the estate has become bankrupt. I have sacked the servants, auctioned off the contents of the house and cut spending to the bone. Even then, we are running an unsustainable deficit._

_My pride is not so great that I have not tried charity. But we are still pariahs, sister. Even with the commendations of Teyrn Cousland, the landed gentry still regard us with antipathy for the crimes of our father. The peasantry are worse; some malcontents even allege that I convinced the Warden-Commander to forego the defence of Amaranthine out of spite. We will find no alms._

_I recall that, after father died, you abandoned the life of nobility and married a commoner. You have my deepest praise, sister, for you are far more noble and altruistic than myself. I cannot let the Howe family lapse into poverty. Our father – for all his crimes – gave everything to keep our family name strong. I will not let it wallow into obscurity only a year after his death._

_I am resolute, sister, and there is no turning back. I have already sold the estate to fund the expedition. I have set aside a sum of five hundred sovereigns, which you may claim as in your rights. The rest must finance the expedition. I do not mean to deprive you of your inheritance, sister; only in this way can I preserve it. The rewards are as great as the perils; a successful mission will not only stave off bankruptcy, but restore our fortunes._

_You say that I am ignorant of the risks, but I am not. There is no penalty I would not incur to save our legacy. I am willing to sacrifice my land, my title and even my life, for the sake of our family._

_With sincerest affections,_

_Nathaniel_

* * *

><p>Kirkwall felt like more of a home to Nathaniel than Amaranthine.<p>

Though Fereldan by birth, he had spent the last eight years in the Free Marches, drifting from city to city. His sister, Delilah, had protested to their late father how Nathaniel was able to travel across the Marches at his leisure while she was marooned in Amaranthine. Rendon had retorted that it was important that Nathaniel, as the presumptive heir to the arling, built up contacts with the Marcher nobles and learned statecraft under the tutelage of foreign rulers. In reality, Rendon – knowing full well the dangers of court politics – had exiled his son to the north in order to preserve his family line. As long as Nathaniel remained alive, the Howe blood-line – and its rights and claims – would continue.

Nathaniel's affinity for Kirkwall had only been heightened by his eventual return to Ferelden. After almost a decade's absence, he returned to find his father dead, his sister mired in poverty, his family name dragged through the sewers of public vitriol, and himself attainted and stripped of his rights and titles. Even his home had been confiscated from him, given to the very people who had murdered his father and brought about his downfall. Though he had reconciled himself with the Wardens and the nobility, and even the very family his father had tried to eradicate, and had been rewarded for his actions with an estate in Amaranthine, Ferelden could no longer be his home.

During his travels, he had spent a year at Kirkwall. The moment his ship sailed through the narrow straits – watched over by the sinister bronze statues erected during the time of the Imperium – and into the grand harbour, he knew that the city eclipsed not just Amaranthine, but Denerim itself. Whereas Denerim was a squatting heap of primitive shacks, Kirkwall was a mighty citadel of granite and marble. _Only Val Royeaux could be grander_, he had mused, although he did not share this sentiment with his hosts, Kirkwallers being notorious for their antipathy towards the Orlesians.

Returning to the city, Nathaniel's circumstances could not have been more different. He was no longer the adventurous, carefree scion of a privileged Fereldan house. Now, he was the patriarch of a disgraced family, weighed down by his obligations to his deceased father and living sister, and the crushing debt that his family had incurred. Nonetheless, he felt a familiar relief at the sight of those statues; a flash of the excitement that had gripped him upon his first arrival.

Presently, the ship had docked – an impressive feat, considering how swarmed the harbour was with Fereldan vessels, dumping their cargo of Blight refugees. Strolling down the gangplank, Nathaniel was so caught up in the majesty of the city that he almost didn't notice the two men gathered at the bottom. As he walked towards him, one raised his hand in greeting.

"Ser Nathaniel, I presume?" he asked, "I am Darien. I must say it is a pleasure to see you in the flesh, after so many months of correspondence." He inclined his head. Nathaniel reciprocated the gesture. Since time was of the essence, Nathaniel had hired a native merchant to organise the expedition in the advance. In return, Darien received a third of the revenue. It was a high price for a middleman, but if the expedition was as successful as Nathaniel hoped, it wouldn't matter.

"This is Amalus," said Darien, indicating the man to his left, "He is the representative of Lord Borin, the other benefactor of this expedition." Nathaniel gave the man a curt nod. A minor city noble, Borin had been brought in to inject some much needed capital into the expedition. It meant adding another recipient to the proceeds from the expedition. But without a solid loan to reassure the hirelings, there wouldn't even be an expedition.

"Shall we proceed straight to business, then?" said Darien. Nathaniel nodded. The three men edged their way through the crowds. Finally, they arrived at a warehouse on the waterfront. Darien ushered him inside. The warehouse was small but sparsely populated; only a dozen or so crates littered the interior. At the centre, a large table had been set up. It was covered in a variety of charts and documents.

As Nathaniel and Amalus sat down at the table, Darien fetched a carafe of wine and three copper goblets. He placed them down on the table and filled each glass to the brim. Nathaniel picked up his goblet.

"How are preparations, then?" he asked.

"One hundred twenty-five men in total," replied Darien, "Mostly slum dwellers and desperate Lowtowners, but a sizeable contingent of mercenaries, as well. Of course, we would have preferred proficient men-at-arms, but financial constraints dictated-"

"Any one interesting?" said Nathaniel, having recalled Darien's propensity for longwinded excuses. If he was wounded by the interruption, he hid it well.

"A few characters," he said, "One in particular might interest you – a Grey Warden." Nathaniel looked at him in surprise. He had pressed Darien to try and obtain the assistance of a Warden, knowing that their knowledge of the Deep Roads would be invaluable. But he had never believed that one would aid him, never mind participate.

"Well, a former Grey Warden," admitted Darien, "But he was in service up until only a year ago. Knowing your history with the order, I did make inquiries, but he says he has never met you." Nathaniel sat up. If he had not met him at Vigil's Keep, his origins must be fairly distant.

"Name?" he asked.

"Seleucian," replied Darien, adding: "Any recognition?" Nathaniel shook his head.

"I thought as much," said Darien, "Had you met, you would have no doubt recalled it. He is…an unconventional individual." Nathaniel cocked an eyebrow.

"How so?" he asked.

"You shall see," said Darien, cryptically, "Besides, the wine is getting warm. Let us propose a toast." He picked up his goblet and stood up. Nathaniel followed him, as did the muted Amalus. Darien raised his glass.

"Gentlemen," he cried, "to the success of our expedition!"


	3. Sibling Harmony

_Mother,_

_If you're reading this, then I'm already gone._

_Don't blame Carver. I told him not to tell you until I had left. I knew you would try and stop me. You know how dangerous the Deep Roads are. _

_I'm making amends, mother. It's my fault that we have to squat in Lowtown. It's my fault that we live in fear of the Templars. I've failed Garret, and I've failed you. I should have been the one protecting this family. Instead, I've damned it._

_With the money from the expedition, everything can change. We can move out of Lowtown and buy back the estate. With a bit of coin in our coffers, we can bribe the Guard and the Templars. We can live like normal people – not scavenge like rats._

_Pray for me, mother. Look after Carver; he stills blames himself for what happened to Garret. Take care of uncle Gamlen; he's a half-wit, but he's your brother. Only now do I see what that truly means._

_With all my love,_

_Bethany_

* * *

><p>"Get out of my face, dog lords."<p>

Bethany rolled her eyes irritably. If she wasn't so desperate for employment, she would have incinerated this dwarf by now. Instead, she tolerated his vitriol.

"Come on, Bartrand," said Carver, who followed up behind, "We need the money."

"Don't we all," he remarked, without bothering to turn his head around. Carver gritted his teeth. Before her brother could snap the dwarf's neck like a stalk of dry celery, Bethany swiftly interceded.

"You need us," she said, trying a different tack, "We have prior experience with darkspawn. How many other of your thugs can say that?"

"Since you're so experienced," Bartrand replied, "why not start your own expedition? I'm sure you and your half-cocked brother could take on the darkspawn single-handedly."

Narrowing her eyes, Bethany overtook the dwarf. Seizing him by the shoulders, she hunched to his level and lowered her voice.

"I can use magic," she whispered, "You're gonna need a mage if you're taking on the darkspawn. How many other magi do you have in your company?" The audacity infuriated Bartrand. He wrenched her hands off of him.

"None," he said, through gritted teeth, "because why the Hell would I invite the wrath of the Templars down on me, you dumb dog-lover whore?" Bethany shrank back against the venom of the remark, already regretting her actions. Bartrand walked past her. Then, sensing that this was going to continue, he stopped and turned around.

"Let me put this bluntly," he said, with an even tone, "I don't care if you're an expert darkspawn slayer or if you can pull a nug out of a helmet – there's no more Maker-damned room." Bartrand glanced between the two of them, ensuring that his message was clear.

"Now go piss your life away somewhere else," he barked. Without a further word, he turned about and walked away. Bethany and Carver stood in the centre of the plaza, dejected.

"Andraste's sake," muttered Bethany, running a hand through her hair.

"Smooth, sister," said Carver, "Really sold that deal."

"We wouldn't even need this expedition," she retorted, "if you had just taken on another contract with Meeran."

"I don't want to be a sellsword all my life, Beth," he said.

"Don't be so damn selfish," she said, "It's not about you, it's about the family."

"Selfish?" he snapped, "It's your damn Templars we're avoiding!"

"_Mine_?" Bethany exclaimed. Before the argument could escalate into a full-scale brawl, Carver lifted up his hands apologetically.

"Wait, wait," he said, sighing, "I'm sorry, alright? I'm just…pissed off." Bethany said nothing. When it was clear that she wasn't going to respond, Carver simply moved on.

"We should check the docks," he said, "See if they have any more jobs going around." Bethany nodded.

As he wandered through the streets of Kirkwall, Carver considered just how little the city he had spent a year of his life in felt like home. Perhaps it was because he lived that year as an indentured slave, forced to labour for a company of sellswords. Or maybe it was because, as a refugee and a Fereldan, he was lower than any other occupant of the city, save those who dwelt in Darktown.

When they reached the docks, he turned to face his sister.

"Sometimes I wonder if Garret got the better deal," he said abruptly. Bethany, who had mellowed since their spat, looked at him in bemusement.

"When he died," said Carver, "he thought we were going to end up in Kirkwall, living in some plush mansion in Hightown and soaking off the hospitality of our moneyed uncle. At least he never had to see what a lie that was; never had to slave for a year just to get entry…"

"He's dead, Carver," she said, "and I'd slave for a thousand years just to bring him back. As he would for us."

Before Carver could respond, Bethany noticed a pamphlet lying on the ground. Crouching down, she picked it up and glanced over it. An advertisement for a Deep Roads expedition. Just as she was about to discard it in disgust, she noticed that it wasn't Bartrand's. Instead, the pamphlet credited the expedition to a 'Darien de Hughenaut'.

"What is it?" asked Carver, looking over her shoulder.

"A change of fortune," she replied, "Another expedition – without Bartrand." Her brother grinned.

"Perfect," he said, "Where do we sign up?" Slowly, Bethany rolled up the pamphlet and stashed it in her pocket.

"I sign up tomorrow," she said, "You're staying here." Carver frowned.

"Why are you sidelining me-" he began, before Bethany cut him off with a wave of her hand. She turned around to face him.

"Be serious, Carver," she said, "This is dangerous. If something happens to the expedition, who will look out for mother – _Gamlen_?" Carver didn't respond. The point was valid. Eventually, he sighed and turned about.

"But why you?" he asked, exasperatedly.

"Because I'm an apostate," she said, in a low voice, "I'm the one who's causing trouble for us. If I stay here, I'm putting the whole family at risk. By going on this expedition, I can return when the pressure's off." Bethany walked over to her brother, placing an arm on his shoulder. He looked behind him.

"Take care, Carver," she said. He turned around, pulling her into an embrace.

"You too, Beth," he said softly.


	4. The Thief, the Slave, His Lord, Her Love

_My little wolf,_

_I knew you would come for me. Even in my absence, I know you better than anyone._

_Why do you continue to run from me? Not that I do not enjoy the chase, of course. But when the final result is already predetermined, why postpone the inevitable with such tedious delays?_

_You will return to me. You know this, and I know this. I entertain no such delusions that my men will ever succeed in capturing you. Think of them as a reminder – of your master and your old life, which you have forsaken. Think of them also as a chance for redemption. I can be merciful; reconciliation is not impossible._

_Regardless, I am the only option you have. Do not delude yourself into thinking you can carve out a new identity. Who will you go to? The insular elven clans, who will shun you as an abomination? The Free Marchers, who loathe foreigners almost as much as they loathe elves? Will you squat in the Alienage with the rest of the vermin? Even Kirkwall will eventually spit you out, leaving you alone once more._

_Return to me, my little wolf. Remember your loyalty. Recall that incident on Seheron. You can no more masquerade as a freeman than a Qunari can impersonate an elf. Your past is in the Imperium, as is your future._

_Enjoy the mansion. It is rightfully yours, just as you are rightfully mine._

_You know where to find me,_

_Master_

* * *

><p>Fenris crushed the scroll in his hands before tossing it away.<p>

It landed close to the fireplace. A stray ember shot out and caught an edge of the scroll, setting it alight. For a moment, Fenris willed the fire to spread across the floor and ignite the whole house. But the flames dwindled and died, as did his hopes.

_Foolish. _

That was what he had been. To think that he had struck a great victory against Danarius. To assume that the loss of his mansion meant anything more to Danarius than the loss of his men. Fenris had thought that slaughtering his slavers would have put paid to his efforts. Now, Danarius had him right where he wanted him, and he could do nothing but wait for him to make the next move.

Slowly, Fenris stood up from the couch. Empty bottles scattered in his wake as he walked across the room. Initially, he had been reluctant to plunder Danarius' wine reserves. What if his men came for him during the night, and he was too intoxicated to defend himself? If Danarius knew he was coming, what if he had poisoned the supply? But after he discovered the letter, Fenris was desperate for any cheap victory against his master. The collection was impressive, especially for a foreign home – Orlesian brands, mainly, and some as old as the Exalted Age. Fenris had downed them as if they were cheap tavern ales.

For days, this had been his routine. He experienced a sort of permanent drunkenness, which left him lying in a stupor for hours on end. He waited patiently for Danarius to return. But no one came to the house. The sole exception was a guard, who had interrupted his daze by knocking on the door. Upon answering it, she had assumed – to his lasting disgust – that Fenris was his master's concubine; a misconception that he entertained, since it meant otherwise losing his home. She had seemed satisfied with his explanation for his master's absence. But lately, Fenris had seen her observing the house from afar. He knew that time was growing short.

Danarius' power was that only he could make the first move. This left Fenris only able to respond, and never to instigate. It infuriated him to think that, even now, his former master dictated his actions. As long as he was still at the whim of Danarius, Fenris could never truly be free. He was still a slave.

_No longer._

As long as he remained in the mansion, Fenris was at a disadvantage. Even now, he was probably under surveillance from his master's spies. Danarius would know exactly where to find him; he could attack him at any moment. Remaining stationary was considered by many to be the mark of freedom. But in order to remain free, Fenris had to keep moving. He would leave Kirkwall. Let Danarius react to his actions for a change.

But he needed money. For the first time since his arrival, Fenris left the confines of the mansion and emerged into Hightown. He had contemplated borrowing a robe, but then decided against it. As such, the gentry of Hightown stared with open contempt or disbelief at the audacious elf and his vulgar tattoos. Fenris put this down to simple snobbery. But as he descended to the lower levels, he noticed that even here, he was treated with fear or disdain. Wherever he went, the stains on his skin marked him out.

_Your past is in the Imperium, as is your future._

But Fenris found his opportunity. An expedition to the Deep Roads, which would soon be leaving. He would be free from Kirkwall – and his master's spies – for a week. If the expedition was successful, he would make more than enough coin to move elsewhere – perhaps to Orlais, where Danarius could not reach him. And if the expedition went awry, Danarius would be permanently deprived of his favourite slave; not even he could retrieve a body once the darkspawn were through with it. He was in charge of his fate, now. His erstwhile master could only watch and wait.

Now, Fenris would make the first move. If Danarius was following him, then let him follow him into the Deep Roads. If he was waiting when he returned, he would be ready for him.

* * *

><p>"So I've been thinking about the expedition…"<p>

Arin, having just caught his breath, turned aside and gave his lover a dismal glance.

"You know, Lilley," he said, "most women don't tend to use pillow talk for business."

"I'm not most women," she replied. _How right you are_, he thought sardonically.

Slowly, Arin sat up in the bed and threw his legs over the side. Having stretched his back, he stood up and grabbed his trousers off from the floor. Pulling them on, he walked over to the desk at the side of the room. Lilley shifted to lie on her side.

"So how long have you been thinking about it?" he asked, fixing himself a cup of wine from a pewter jug on the desk.

"Oh, just the past hour or so," she said dryly. Arin rolled his eyes. It was dangerous to make jibes at a Coterie spymaster – even one you were bedding. But Lilley's candid speech was just something that Arin found endearing about her, even if it strained her relations with others in the organisation.

"Just, why me?" she asked, "Why do I have to go traipsing around the Deep Roads for a week, getting savaged by darkspawn for some fool noble? Couldn't you send someone else, like Brekker?"

"Brekker!" said Arin incredulously, "That fool? If I wanted to ensure the expedition's failure, maybe…" Although he was sure that Lilley would have no objections to seeing Drekker butchered by a darkspawn attack.

"Why is the Coterie even keeping tabs on this expedition," she asked, "when it's bound to be a failure?"

"Don't be impertinent," he replied. Lilley shot him a withering look, which made him smile. _She would go far in the Coterie_, he thought, _if she lives that long_.

"Because, Lil," he said, "there is that small, small chance that it may actually uncover something valuable. Priceless, even. And if it does, we need to get our hands on it." Lilley lay back on the bed.

"Am I supposed to single-handedly plunder the Deep Roads?" she muttered.

"Don't be silly," he said, shooting her a disapproving look. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. Rolling his eyes, he picked up the jug and moved over to the bed. Slowly, he sat down on the side.

"This is just an expedition, Lilley," he said, "If they do discover a treasure cache, they will mark it and either come back for it later with more men or sell the location to an interested party." Arin filled himself another cup.

"If we obtain the location, however," he said, "we can get in there before they've even organised a follow-up. We'll be able to seize the valuables without having to share our profits or organise a preliminary expedition in the first place." Lilley sat up in the bed, looking over at him.

"We get all the benefits without any of the cost," she said. Arin smiled.

"Smart girl," he said. Lilley pondered it for awhile, rubbing her chin in thought. Arin poured out the last of the wine. Suddenly, she dropped her hand and sighed.

"Alright," she said, "I'll do it."

"That's my girl," said Arin, smiling. He lay back on the bed. Lilley sidled over to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. Arin stroked his fingers along her auburn hair. For a few moments, they stared up at the ceiling in silence.

"And you must end your feud with Brekker," said Arin, abruptly breaking the serenity, "It doesn't do to have infighting in the Coterie. There's already enough mutual distrust."

"I can think of one way to end it," said Lilley, her meaning clear.

"I know you don't like him," said Arin, carefully, "I don't like him either. The man's a fool and a halfwit. But he's _our _fool. If you keep sniping at each other, one of you is going to end up dead, and then the Coterie will be duty-bound to kill the other." He gave Lilley a stern look. If she did have Drekker killed, he would probably be the one who had to avenge him, and their relationship would not have caused a single moment of hesitation before he plunged the knife in.

"So patch up with Dekker," he said, "and do try to be _nice_ to the people on this expedition." Lilley feigned a pout, which looked odd on her, since Arin was so accustomed to her severe expression.

"Aren't I always?" she said. Arin downed the last of the wine.


End file.
